


Copper and Magic

by Saintduma



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Depression, Drowning, Fairy Politics, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Original Character(s), Self-Destruction, Sex Toys, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Victorian Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saintduma/pseuds/Saintduma
Summary: This fic is a birthday gift for a lovely 616!Tony writer friend of mine.  It's part Victorian AU, part Fairy AU, and like many fairy tales, there is no true happy ending.  There is sex, though.Want to see more than one fic a year from me? Check out my Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/saintduma





	1. An Odd New ?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estivaate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estivaate/gifts).



Antoinette leaned over the little table with the most flirtatious expression she could muster, and fanned herself lazily with the incredibly lacy contraption in her hand. It was a dangerous weapon, that fan, the steel bones heavy enough when folded together to break a part of the spinal column, and the retractable razors so sharp they could cut paper floating in air. 

Tony knew because he’d built it for her. Antoinette was a formidable Madame in the most expensive, most accommodating house of desire in London, and she had found Tony the most entertaining and capable partners he could ever wish for. He’d made an adjustable under-corset for her, simply for the curiosity of having never built a corset or corset accessory, wildly comfortable and invisible under almost anything, and of course, completely resistant to any bullet under 50 calibers and any knife not attached to the end of a tank. 

To say he favored the wares she purveyed was an understatement.

“Are you going to show me this new invention, or just tease me, my dear Mr. Stark?” she purred.

“Are you going to look bored while I explain how it works?” he asked.

“Never,” she replied. “I have years of experience of looking interested when I’m not.” 

This was why Tony liked Antoinette. She always made him laugh when he visited London. Always. 

~

Tony had met Antoinette during a particularly strange evening that had changed his life. After his parents had died in an awful biplane accident the summer he turned 17, he’d left New York City for Lisbon. He had drunk his way through continental Europe, and landed in Paris, where he was making a studious attempt to continue his liquor-fueled tour of back alleys. It was in one such back alley he had met Antoinette, then a purveyor of her own aging goods in the streets. 

She had urged him to go back into the bar he’d just been ejected from, but Tony, being the stubborn and gregarious creature he was while drunk, had draped himself over her, promised her enormous sums of money, and been lucky enough to take the brunt of the explosive attack Antoinette had been trying to protect him from. 

It had, naturally, knocked him quite unconscious, and he woke up in an ossuary, a coil of copper wires in his chest attached to a small steam engine. Antoinette was there as well, her makeup smeared and dress torn, but managing somehow to still look composed and sophisticated. 

As had happened, Antoinette was more than a _belle de la nuit_. She was a trained healer, with a small but practiced amount of magical talent that came in particularly handy at keeping herself and a few of her fellow ladies clean of disease and injury. She also had a mind for machines, and once she realized she could not heal the injury Tony had sustained without dooming him to death by tiny shards working their way into his heart, she had concocted a way to keep him alive. Their captors knew her quite well; she sold information as much as she sold her other talents, and so when she had gone to warn Tony, they had simply scooped her up as well. 

They wanted weapons from Tony. Of course they wanted weapons. His father had been brilliant at weapons, and already Tony had designed dozens of brilliant weapons for the United States. He insisted that he needed Antoinette to help him, and with the assistance of her steady hands and entertaining repartee, he had built what he called an A.R.C. generator, like the massive one that powered the seventy-story skyscraper his father had build in New York City, only so small it fit in the palm of his hand. This replaced the steam engine-fueled magnet in his chest, and soon after, powered the suit he had built to fight their way out of the catacombs. He’d dragged the leader of this resistance to the Crown of France, and given the generous reward to Antoinette. 

She had taken that, moved to London, and begged him to design her the safest and most beautiful house for her to employ other clever people of the ancient profession. And, of course, he had.

~

Tony explained the contents of his suitcase, and true to her word, she looked quite interested the entire time, and genuinely so, given her far better than average understanding of mechanical engineering. He finished, closed the suitcase up, and looked at her, expectantly. 

“Well,” she said, fanning herself crisply again, and drawing a ring of keys from the silk sachet at her waist. “Room seventeen. Knock first, like always. I promise you, you will enjoy your... experimentation with that contraption.” 

“You’re my favorite,” he grinned at her.

“I had better be, or you will break my heart,” she said, straightening up and fanning herself still. Tony pocketed the key and took the stairs to the next floor two at a time, and heard her pull the bell line to the room, to alert its resident to a companion. 

Room seventeen was the attic space. It was tall and oddly shaped, and like all of the rooms, had an outer door, to which Tony’s key fit, and an inner door, that only the _demimonde_ themselves could open, even more resilient to attack than Madame Antoinette’s corset.

He heard the reinforced slide open, and looked into the one-way mirror, to clearly show his face to the _demimonde_ behind it. It closed, the door unlocked, and Tony was surprised by the figure revealed when it opened. 

At first glance, it was a man as tall as he was, but more slender. He had thick black hair to his waist, so dark it seemed to drink the light around it, and skin so pale and smooth he might have never seen day. He was dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt without a jacket, but with the most splendid of green brocade vests complete with gold buttons and a gold watch. But Tony met his eyes first, and no human had eyes like that. They were three distinct colors in layers, gold at the center, bright glittering emerald in the middle, and a deep pine forest green at the edge. 

“You’re a changeling,” Tony breathed. 

“And you’re Anthony Stark,” replied the faerie, his tone annoyed. “Madame has a sense of humor, sending the Man of Iron to me.” 

“If it helps, my suit isn’t actually iron, and it’s definitely not cold iron,” Tony smirked. 

“Comforting,” the faerie said dryly. “Well, come in. Do you want coffee? I just had cakes and sandwiches ordered when you rang, so you might as well have dinner with me.”

“Can I eat food you offer me without being spellbound?” It was a joke, and it was clearly a joke, but it made the faerie look annoyed.

“If you are going to make fun of me, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” he said, flatly. “And if you refuse, I can force you out. Please do not make me do either.”

“You’re supposed to laugh at my jokes,” Tony pouted. 

“I’m supposed to fuck you, or let you fuck me, and send you on your way.” It was crass, and blunt, and offensive. From one of Antoinette’s employees, it was shocking. Only the cheapest of street prostitutes spoke like that. 

“Excuse me,” Tony said, trying to school his outrage from showing on his face. “Perhaps you misunderstand your role here, and the caliber of clientele you interact with.”

“I’m sorry, I thought it was acceptable to make nasty comments to one another, given how you started this conversation,” the faerie replied, sipping a glass of amber liquid he picked up from his desk. “A man as famously intelligent, charming, and licentious as you surely didn’t speak like this to your Practical Realm Theory Applications professor at Oxford? Doctor Bramblewind has been teaching that for at least a hundred and twenty years, and when I met him last spring, he mentioned how well mannered you were, given how little resonance with our realm you have.” 

It didn’t take much reflection to realize how rude he’d been. Of course he’d never made jokes about cold iron and spellbound food to Doctor Bramblewind. He had even taken supper with him, more than once, because he was a brilliant mind in his field. There were only a tiny handful of fey that deigned to teach humans. Most fey were dismissive and reclusive. Even the high courts were barely accessible; the only diplomats they’d take were magicians and feyblooded, and more often than not, even those would be lost to the courts, and require nations to scramble for replacements. 

But faeries that engaged in intercourse with humans were not so unusual. They fell into two categories; highblooded fey, Seelie or Unseelie, who wanted a line of humans from whom they could cultivate certain specific magics, and lowblooded fey, who simply enjoyed the power trip of bespelling and cavorting with humans. The latter was what Tony expected to find in a position like this, even if Mme Antoinette’s establishment was so well regarded that it was visited by royalty. 

Clearly, this was not a lowblooded changeling. 

“Please, then, accept my apologies,” Tony said, and put down his suitcase, which drew the faerie’s gaze to his face. “I should have recognized the gold in your eyes. Professor Bramblewind did tell me only the highest-blooded fae have such a color.”

The changeling stared at him for a long moment. Tony Stark was not a man who apologized. He’d insulted high ministers of government and laughed it off because he could. He had the money and the things people wanted. He didn’t have to apologize. And really, he didn’t have to apologize for this; but the faerie’s tactic had worked _and_ backfired all at once. Of course Bramblewind had given up secrets to that clever child. Bramblewind would want his curiosity, and want the protection that curiosity afforded. If Stark was curious about the fey, he would not invent to destroy them. 

But now the faerie had to explain why a royal was in a whorehouse in dirty, grey, murky, human London.

“Apology accepted,” he said. “Please, allow me to start again. I am called Loki.” He gave a bow, not too shallow, nor mockingly deep. “Welcome to my apartments, Mr. Stark.”

“Please, Loki, call me Tony,” Tony said, mimicking Loki’s bow. “And if the offer of coffee and cakes and sandwiches stands, I’d very much enjoy some; I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast.” 

“I am sure you know the Madame spares no expense in her food offerings, and Melissa is an exquisite chef,” Loki said. 

“Of course,” Tony replied. “She was my private chef when I lived in London for a few years after Antoinette and I met.”

“Really? How kind of you to ensure her employment here.” Loki picked up a decanter and a crystal glass. “Bourbon, in the meantime? You’re lucky I have it; I usually prefer vodka, but as it’s so close to Mardi Gras.”

“You’re too generous; Antoinette insisted on hiring her when I told her I was moving to California. And yes, please. Have you celebrated Mardi Gras before? I went to the one in New Orleans last year; absolutely wild.” 

“No, but I was in Venice for it last year,” Loki replied as he poured a few fingers of bourbon for Tony, and handed it to him. “Marvelous. I purchased several masks, of course.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m so curious,” Tony said with a smile, and swirled the liquid before taking a sip. “I have to ask how long you’ve been in human cities.” 

“There’s Claude with the cakes,” Loki put down the decanter and went to the door, just as there was a knock. He opened it and took the large tray from the serving-boy with one hand. Given the weight of the tray, and how overladen it was, with a big pot of coffee, two cups, a three-tier display of cakes, and a large crystal-covered plate of sandwiches, the ease with which Loki handled it and closed the door behind the boy was impressive. He grabbed his tumbler of bourbon with his other hand and set the tray on the coffee table, and began to lay out two places for them. 

Tony sat beside him, and put his hand over Loki’s, which was colder than he expected, and made him pause. 

“Tell me,” Tony murmured. “Are you in some sort of trouble? You are austere and ill-mannered for this work, and clearly of not insignificant title. If there is something you are hiding from, there are safer places than here.”

“No,” Loki replied. “I am neither hiding nor am I in trouble. But I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I didn’t mean to offend--”

Loki stood, and went to the door. He opened and stood beside it. 

“I will not answer your questions,” Loki said shortly. “Not all fey are so welcoming to your curiosity as Doctor Bramblewind.” 

Tony stood, annoyed at this creature, who demanded from him and denied him and fascinated him so easily. He straightened his jacket and proceeded to the door, but didn’t step through yet. He stood in front of Loki, regarding him with a slight frown, and without a word, kissed him, hard. 

Loki resisted for a moment, unyielding, but his own curiosity overtook him and he returned Tony’s kiss for a moment, just long enough to welcome an exploring tongue and taste him, before he drew away, and turned his head to the side. 

Tony stepped through the door, and heard it shut and lock behind him. He took a moment to compose himself, and proceeded all the way down the stairs to Antoinette’s office.

“Oh, _mon chou_ ,” she said on seeing him. “Has he offended you? I thought you would get on well, you are both so clever in such different ways.” 

“No, I’m afraid I offended him,” Tony said. “Please, give him my apologies.” She looked surprised at that, and didn’t bother to hide it, even if Tony knew well that she could. 

“You left your suitcase,” she said. “I will go retrieve it for you.”

“No, no,” he replied. “Let him keep it. Tell him it’s my apology gift. I had meant to give him such a good time with it, he shouldn’t be denied that. Antoinette-- how long has he been here?”

She hesitated. “Just over two years,” she said. “He arrived on the winter solstice. Are you leaving?”

“Oh, my dear Antoinette, you know I don’t come to London for short stays,” Tony grinned at her, and his smile made her less anxious, and he knew it. “I’ll be here until at least October, if not through next winter.” 

“Good. Please come back soon; I will have a proper dinner, and we will get you reacquainted with my friends.” She meant her friends outside of the house, and he knew it. He liked her friends, for the most part; clever, useful people who transcended their station no matter where it was in the social order.

“Of course,” he assured her. “I am only sorry to have frustrated one of them so quickly.”

“He will calm,” she said dismissively. “Think no more of it.”

She had a cab called for him, and walked him to the curb, and Tony could swear a figure watched him depart from the attic window.


	2. Fairy Guide

> It is always a pleasure to have you, and I am looking forward to dinner with you at your earliest pleasure.  
>  Dr. Bramblewind

Doctor Bramblewind’s telegraphs were always very short and to the point, which Tony immensely appreciated, given how the changeling could talk. His suspicion of technology was legendary, of course, and had only slightly waned after Tony had explained how electric current worked, and how several machines used it. 

Tony was seen in by Bramblewind’s butler, an old faeblooded man who had served as Bramblewind’s faithful chalet for almost fifty years now. He moved a little slower, but was no less attentive to detail and dedicated to his work than he had been when he was young; Bramblewind explained that he was related to a stone troll, which explained his methodical nature, and his less than attractive visage. Bramblewind himself was an expat of sorts, a highblooded fey who had, some two hundred and fifty years before, retired from the Seelie court to live what he referred to as a ‘simpler’ life among humanity. It was a bold choice, but not entirely unheard of. There were fey all over the world who had made similar choices. He was shorter in stature than Tony, but still slender and stronger than Tony could imagine in such a small body. He had wildly curly brown and green hair, and bright red and orange eyes. Unlike Loki’s gold, the rings around his pupils was a rich, earthy brown, like milk chocolate.

The food was brilliant, and the drink top quality, and they sat in Bramblewind’s conservatory, a glass structure attached to the sunny side of the house filled with all manner of strange plants and many caged birds, all of them native to feylands from around the world, even South America and deep central Africa. Tony’s favorite was a large gray hunting raptor from Australia, which had feathers so hard and sharp they could cut most soft metals like clay; its cage was cold iron, though Bramblewind took it out frequently, and it was a remarkably friendly, albeit dangerous creature. 

“She’s due for an egg now any day,” Bramblewind said proudly. “I found her a mate, but of course I have to house them separately, else she’ll cut him to pieces now she’s with egg. Males develop much faster than females, and have lifespans a tiny fraction of their counterparts, but you remember I’m sure, from class.” 

“Not from class,” Tony smiled. “We didn’t cover a lot of bestiary, remember; you taught me most of that on visits.”

“Of course, of course,” Bramblewind said, stroking her feathers with a gloved hand, as she tore apart a piece of raw lamb, which despite being a gory sight, didn’t put Tony off in the least from his own food. “But you said you’d met an acquaintance of mine. I’m overcome with curiosity, I really am; who?”

“He only gave me the name Loki,” Tony said. “Tall as I am, black hair, gold and green eyes. He mentioned having seen you last spring.”

“Oh,” Bramblewind sighed, and looked sad. Bramblewind tried to never hide his expressions; he was always as excited or as sad as he looked. He could mask his emotions very well, and Tony had seen him do it, but, as he told Tony after, he’d left the courts so he could relax. “I should have surmised. I knew he had taken up residence with the lovely Madame.” 

“He is charming, in a sort of dry way,” Tony said. “But he would tell me so little.”

“Of course not,” Bramblewind said, and sighed as the sharp-feathered bird finished her meat, and looked at him expectantly. He stood and walked her to her cage, and very carefully, without touching the bars with her or his skin, put her on her stone perch inside. He put another big piece of meat in there and closed the door, latching it carefully and taking the gloves off, which he dropped onto a stone table beside her cage. “His titular name is Iokl, the Loptr, Prince of Power, Shape, and Illusion. Or it was, but he has abandoned it all to live among humans, and eschews even the tile of Hveðrungr, which I was told also belongs to him, now the truth of his birth was revealed.”

“Prince,” Tony echoed. “He was a high court price?”

“Was being the word with most emphasis,” Bramblewind said sadly. “He was the second prince, and a beloved one, for his skills with magic were said to be so fine as to second only his mother’s. But just before the High King Odyron fell into miasma a day before the Winter Solstice three years ago, an arrow from an Unseelie assassin struck Loki in his chest, and an ancient glamour fell from him, and showed his true skin to the court; he is Sidhe, of course, there is no lie in that. He is royal Sidhe, and begotten of High Queen Frigga. But he is not King Odyron’s son; he is Unseelie, and at that, he is sluagh. Oh, I am sure he is the son of Queen Frigga and the King of the Sluagh, Farbauti. And he had no lesser claim to the second place in line to the throne, behind King Odyron and Queen Frigga’s son ðunor-- Thor.” 

“Then why would he relinquish his claim?” Tony asked. “I know the Seelie and Unseelie courts are not always friendly-- your stories of their wars, I swear, kept me awake when I was nine-- but High Queen Frigga was an Unseelie princess.”

“Yes, but to be sluagh?” Bramblewind gave another melancholy sigh. “There is no true shame in it, but they are the nightmare-bringers. The hoard that screams through the air to announce the horrors of battle, and to devour anything in their path, if they choose, if they are provoked. It is powerful to be sluagh, no doubt, and sluagh hold a few places in the Seelie court, but they are nightmares. To have one so close to the Throne was... shocking.” 

“So he abdicated.” 

“In a manner of speaking. He was badly wounded, and High Queen Frigga took him to her healers, but they could not pull the poison out. They tried to cut it out with agate, but it was hebeloma. I know that means nothing to you-- it’s not even a particularly poisonous mushroom to humans. But to a fairy it is a madness-maker. To pure Sidhe it would crumble their psyche in an hour, and the assassin confessed that the arrow was meant for High King Odyron. But for Prince Iokl, it made him desperate and mad. He begged Thor to go to war with the sluagh, so he could slaughter them all, so he could purify the courts of them, and purify himself. High Queen Frigga was able to pull out the arrowhead, and after she did, he fell to silence, and then burst his bonds, and threw himself into the Maw of the Strid.”

“The Strid is where the River Wharfe narrows and the turbulence can catch people and drown them easily,” Tony said.

“Yes,” Bramblewind said. “And if you wonder why it gobbles up the unwary, it’s because it is connected to the same turbulent force that creates whirlpools and storms.”

“Storms are meteorological events of air currents, heat, and water,” Tony said. “And whirlpools are tidal and meteorological forces interacting with geology.”

“Of course, of course,” Bramblewind smiled. “That is what creates them. But it is a different thing altogether that lives in them, that is born and dies in them, that creatures fear in them and have since time began. You remember in your studies. Though the world can be explained in detail and in logic and law of science, there exists also a second world, a second understanding, the understanding in your heart and in your gut that tells you things before you know them. The instinctual world.” 

“I’m crap at the instinctual world,” Tony said with a half-smile. “You know I am.”

“No, you’re not,” Bramblewind said dismissively. “But you won’t understand why I say that for some time yet.” He patted Tony’s hand. “What was I saying? Oh. The Maw of the Strid. Which is how he ended up in the Thames, ultimately, but not for a year and a day. I can’t imagine. I would say he is lucky to have not simply died, for the turbulence could kill anything, if it wanted, but I do not think he is lucky to have drowned, over and over, for a year and a day. No, the loneliness, and the drowning, it is lucky he is only melancholy, and not insane.”

Tony considered this, for a long moment. 

“He told you all this?” he asked. 

“Oh, Lord and Lady, of course not,” Bramblewind said. “No, no. After he threw himself into the Maw, I had a raven from the recovered King Odyron, asking me to watch for him. He knew that if the Strid ever released his body, it would be in my neck of the woods, and never could we allow his body to end up in the hands of humans. No offense; you are a clever species, but many of you are just as selfish and ferocious as we, and it would be surely desecrated. Imagine my surprise when Antoinette sent me a telegraph that he was alive, and recovering in her apartments.”

“This is... heavy stuff,” Tony said, giving his own sigh, echoed by the sharp-winged bird. Bramblewind smiled absently at her. He’d said many times before that she favored Tony. 

“It is,” Bramblewind said. “But I would say, your curiosity sated, leave him to his melancholy. It will last longer than you will live, and when it is gone, he will find happiness among humanity, I’m sure. And perhaps he will return to court, in a few hundred years’ time, and be welcomed, I’m certain. No magician so powerful as he would be turned away.”

But Bramblewind knew, when he said it, that Tony would do no such thing. Humans rarely followed good advice, which was why he worked so hard to make it seem like that was what it was. He knew Tony carried his own melancholy, and had for a very, very long time-- in the scope of human years, of course. He was already too fascinated with Loki to leave him alone, and now that Bramblewind told him the story, he would pursue that fascination to whatever end he could find.


	3. A Dinner Party

> He asked me to take it from him after you departed, your suitcase, but I declined. I am sure he has learned how to operate it. I’m glad you left it; he is always quiet, and often a little curt, but since he determined its use, he has been a more pleasant dinner guest, and I would venture to say he is a favorite among some of my friends for it. This of course has increased his popularity, and I believe the distraction is good for him.   
> Tony, you make me a gossip, asking after him like this; just come and have dinner, and see him again, and see for yourself.   
> Antoinette

Tony couldn’t turn down Antoinette’s invitation to dinner for long. A date was set, and Tony selected several bottles of wine to bring as a gift to his beloved Antoinette, and he arrived in all his splendor, a dinner coat with tails and a red waistcoat, and another suitcase with clever contents. Loki was hardly late down from his room, arriving downstairs just as cocktails were provided, and he looked splendid in more black and green and gold. Though long hair on men was not in fashion, Loki only barely restrained his, with a green ribbon. This was apparently something other guests of Antoinette’s dinners had already experienced before; most of them had no hesitation in greeting Loki with embraces and kisses, and were bold and comfortable to pet that extraordinary soft length of hair, and Loki seemed to quite enjoy all of it.

Tony only needed introduction to a few of Antoinette’s newer friends, but naturally didn’t require one to Loki. It didn’t go unnoticed. A physician of high repute, Dr. Luvenia Ashdown, was discussing the current version of Tony’s ARC generator and how it interacted with his body with him, when Loki passed by, unengaged in conversation.

“Oh, Mr. Stark, I noticed you’ve already been acquainted with Loki,” she said, bringing Loki into the conversation with ease. “We were discussing the clever method he uses to keep himself alive. Surely you noticed the generator in his chest?”

“Of course,” Loki said. “We’ve met, naturally. But I’m afraid that wasn’t a topic we had broached.”

“Well, forgive me if it’s distasteful, but it’s medically quite marvelous,” Dr. Ashdown said. “I wondered if such a thing was familiar to the fey; either the shrapnel problem, or the issues it poses to a heart.”

“I suppose if the topic doesn’t offend,” Loki said, looking to Tony.

“You’ll find I’m more difficult to offend than expected,” Tony smiled. 

Loki made a neutral sound. “We have encountered problems like this before, though of course, our anatomy and what makes us react is dramatically different. In most cases, we are sturdy enough that with some assistance from healers, we can simply survive until our systems expel the offending matter. But there are some substances we must remove-- of course, everyone knows the example of cold iron-- and if we can use magnetics to pull it out as quickly as possible, any wound we make to recover it is preferable to keeping it in our body. The exception is when things like what happened to you occur; fragments so small they move freely through our circulation. That complicates things, because sometimes those fragments are small enough they are difficult to draw with magnetics, but they must still be removed. In those scenarios, we have developed intensely tiny tools that can be used with magnification and sharp-eyed surgeons, which can be charged magnetically to aid in pulling the flecks out. I’m not sure such techniques would be at all helpful to a human. Even if the shrapnel responds to magnetization, humans do not have our eyesight, nor the ability to create clear glass that magnifies the way ours does.”

“Do you think magnification could overcome the gap in sight?” asked Dr. Ashdown.

“No,” Loki said. “Even if you could make glass that magnifies clearly, distortion is impossible to overcome after a certain threshold. That is where sight and glass meet. We also simply see _more_. If we could teach, I’m sure there are healers who would volunteer it, and though we can enchant your eyes, it is but temporary, and so often it creates madness, to see suddenly all you have never seen.”

“You are certainly forthcoming in response to our questions,” Tony said, and though it sounded earnest enough Dr. Ashdown suspected nothing, Loki’s expression gained a certain neutrality that spoke of his distaste to that response. “Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Loki replied. 

“Ah, they’re calling us to dinner,” Dr. Ashdown said. “I hope I sit near you both. Though I’m sure this is not the best of dinner conversations.”

Tony was pleased that Dr. Ashdown was seated next to an old friend of hers, a librarian for one of the universities, who could take her attention. He was between two women he’d known from the last time he’d stayed in London, and their husbands sat on either side of them, so he had conversation partners he was less obliged to entertain on his own. Loki was another set of people away, making him ever so slightly outside of easy conversation distance. He thanked Antoinette, silently, for that kindness; he would have felt badly for whatever lady had been seated between them, otherwise. 

At one of the gentlemen’s imploring, he told a story about his previous trans-Atlantic voyage, which had been hobbled by ice and a storm, and might have sank or been set to drift without control, but for his cleverness and a new version of his suit. Of course, because self-aggrandizing stories were frowned upon, he chose to tell it in such a fashion to highlight the quick thinking and resourcefulness of one of the ship’s boys, Harley, making him into the hero of the story, or as near as he could. This prompted an interesting discussion about apprenticeships and schooling, practical skills versus theoretical learning.

“Of course, the two are not in the least divorced entirely,” Antoinette said.

“Naturally, no, of course not, if I could not weld, then I could not invent, and if I had no understanding of the sciences, then my welding might be neat as a button, but do nothing of interest,” Tony said. 

“It is not altogether different in our society,” Loki volunteered. “This discussion of practicality versus theoretical. And though we largely come to the conclusion, over and over, that a blending of the two yields young ones with diverse enough experience to make educated decisions regarding what they want to pursue. But I daresay we are spoiled for time, which is not something you can claim. I will admit to have learned much from this discussion.”

“Have you a standard curriculum?” asked Dr. Ashdown. 

“Hardly,” Loki smiled. “Each court has its own ideas of what is critical for the young to learn. But we have the advantage of long lifetimes to diversify in what interests us.”

“But do children tend to follow their parents in their vocations? If a faerie, for example, is a potion-maker, do their children follow suit?” Dr. Ashdown was intensely curious.

“Potions occur in every possible art,” Loki smiled. “But your example is not too outside of reality. Some talents are intensely hereditary. Never ever insult a brownie’s cooking; she has been working on it for a thousand years, and her parents the same, since time forgot.”

“Is that true for you as well?” asked one of the gentlemen further up the table. “If you don’t mind my query, of course.” 

“No, of course not,” Loki replied. “My cooking is hardly anything to rave about.” Laughter came in easy response to Loki’s joke, and Tony realized, suddenly, how very much he _liked_ the faerie. He was cheeky and sarcastic and clever, and maybe some of those traits were ones many changelings possessed, but Loki seemed to have gotten the best of them, in Tony’s opinion. But as the conversation changed without Loki actually answering the man’s question, it became clear to Tony, if perhaps everyone else missed it, how adept he was at navigating social situations. Of course he was; he had been born into court politics, and grew up for who knew how long making his way through them. It was impressive, even if usually Tony had no patience for persons of political persuasion.

Dinner concluded pleasantly enough, and was followed by a pleasant round of digestive liquors and cards. Loki was at a different table than he, and despite Antoinette’s subtle signals Tony should simply join his table, Tony felt himself unusually hesitant. After all, he could easily slip into bed with any of Antoinette’s _demimonde_ , and none of them would be so challenging and rude as Loki had been. He knew he wasn’t the only guest here who would spend the evening-- he’d heard one of the couples he’d sat between talking about it quietly, they would be staying. He considered, as people eventually began to bundle up against the early spring evening chill, even simply leaving with the rest. 

But he didn’t. His eyes followed Loki as the changeling ascended the stairs, and when he was out of sight, Antoinette made certain she caught his gaze. They were alone now, and he stood, smoothing his jacket. 

“I should be going,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, fanning herself slowly.

“I might stay,” he said. “If you have a companion available.”

“Oh, but you should be going,” she replied coyly.

“I should.” He stood, without reaching for his coat. “Does Emilia still have her candle collection?” 

“Of course. She’s added a few new ones you might enjoy,” Antoinette smiled at him. He hummed, indecisive. She watched him, as he rocked on his heels for a moment, and turned the collar of his dinner jacket in his fingers, pressing the fold. 

“Or Daniel. Is he occupied?”

“No,” she said. “And he’d be happy to see you.”

“There are so few people who make poetry interesting to me,” said Tony. “And he manages. Rather well, honestly.”

“He is a treasure,” agreed Antoinette. 

“I’ll need my case,” he said. 

“It will be at the foot of the stairs,” she replied. 

“I should really be going.” 

“Claude can summon you a cab, he’ll be in the foyer if you ring for him.”

“It was a lovely dinner.”

“Thank you. I do so love to have you at them. I wish you’d move back to London, but I know you enjoy your eternal summer in California.” She was smiling still, and fanning herself, with no acceleration or slowing.

“I do, it’s refreshing, and the earthquakes are always exciting.”

“Do you have many?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a quiet month if we have only two.”

“How extraordinary the buildings remain standing.”

“They don’t, always. But it seems they get better at building them over time.” 

“I would love to see architectural designs.” Tony knew she meant it.

“I can have some sent, if you like.”

“It would be lovely.”

“I should go.”

“It is late,” she agreed. Tony didn’t move from where he stood. He’d stood there for almost twenty seconds in silence when she put her hand into a pocket, and drew out a key, which she held on her flat palm in offering to him, the other hand still fanning, fanning.

It took him a long moment, but he took it.


	4. The Calm Before

The case was at the bottom of the stairs, where she said it would be, and the walk up the stairs seemed to pass in a blur. He was standing in front of the outer door of room 17, in the attic, with the key in his hand, and he wasn’t certain what to do with it. If he should just descend the stairs again and walk away, and leave that strange creature to the melancholy Bramblewind said would pass.

But instead he fitted the key into the lock, and turned the latch, and stood in the antechamber. He raised his hand to knock, but the inner door unlocked, and the door swung open. He stepped in.

The room was warm, almost too warm, the fire in both of the grates quite high. Immediately, he could hear machinery, and he knew the sound, because it was _his_ machinery. The door closed of its own accord. His palms felt sweaty suddenly, and everything about this felt so unlike himself. He never felt hesitation when it came to sex. He was confident and cocky and had a reputation for being a thoroughly enjoyable lover, even if he never stayed with one partner for more than a few weeks. He prided himself on that. But Loki, Loki had gotten under his skin. And it meant he wasn’t ready to look over, and see him. 

But he did.

And there was not a single thing about the sight that displeased him. Loki was astride Tony’s invention, the case folded flat, designed of course to be easy and comfortable to kneel on. His hair was loose, a long black curtain falling behind him, and he was still wearing his shirt and waistcoat, but they hung open, one side tucked back, so Tony could clearly see the mechanism of his machine, thrusting its attachment between Loki’s legs. None of Loki’s clothing or hair hid any inch of his erection, either, standing half-mast between pale thighs. Tony met Loki’s eyes, human blue unprepared for a moment against the savage green and gold, and Tony didn’t feel nervous any longer. Loki had known he would come up, and he’d specifically started to fuck _Tony’s_ machine. Loki wanted him here. 

He put the case down, and put his jacket over the back of one of the chairs. He undressed methodically, with half an eye on Loki, who continued fucking himself on Tony’s machine, watching Tony undress. It took longer than Tony would like, but he didn’t rush, didn’t tear anything. He used it to reclaim that space inside of him, to take back his confidence and let it be in his skin, and to acknowledge the nervousness he had about Loki, who felt to him such a wild thing. 

Nude was not naked, for Tony. He knew he was attractive in and out of clothes, and nudity was armor, just of a different kind. He crossed the room, stood in front of Loki, and took his face in his hands. He bent and kissed him, hard, like he had when he’d left just a few weeks before. Loki didn’t resist this kiss like he did the one before. He returned that intensity, with an edge of teeth, and Tony didn’t hesitate. He kicked the switch on the front of the machine, pulling Loki up and off of it. The changeling prince stood easily, refusing to break the kiss, giving Tony only the briefest moments to breathe before he kept kissing, so it felt like one continuous kiss. Tony pulled Loki’s shirt and waist coat off his shoulders, and Loki shrugged so it came off easily. 

Now both completely naked, Loki took the first step back towards his bed, guiding Tony, and Tony followed. Loki grabbed a vial of oil with one hand, and finally pulled free of the kiss. 

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured. 

“I want to be inside you,” whispered Tony, and he bit Loki’s lower lip lightly. 

“Do you want to hold me down?” asked Loki.

“No.”

“You don’t want to feel me fight you under your hands?” It was an offer, and Loki made it sound seductive, desirable, but it didn’t feel correct. Tony wanted to touch the wildness, to run his fingers through its turbulence and come away gasping for air; he didn’t want to subdue it. He wasn’t interested in Loki because he was a steady, calm pool.

“You are a storm with skin,” Tony murmured. “I want to walk away soaked in you and hearing my heartbeat in my ears like a new drum.” 

“Such poetry,” Loki replied with a laugh, quiet, and dark, and the kind of dangerous that went to the root of Tony’s body and made his cock twitch. Loki climbed onto the bed, and moved back, to invite Tony to crawl onto it with him. He tossed the long black hair to one side, and for a moment, Tony thought he could see the storm he’d imagined Loki to be coiling in his hair, black clouds ready to break, and if he imagined electricity when he kissed Loki again, it wasn’t so far from how it felt to kiss something like him. He sat back on his heels, bringing Loki’s mouth with him as he rose up, and he felt Loki drizzle oil over his cock, and made a noise when Loki’s hand began to work it down over his shaft. 

Later, Tony would not have an easy time describing what this felt like. It wasn’t unreal. It was more real, somehow, like his senses had been switched on entirely for the first time. He could taste the liqueur Loki had drunk with his cards, and under it the clean, slightly oceanic taste of the changeling, like high wind on a clear winter day on the ocean. He smelled like winter, too; he smelled like ozone, and snow, and burned pine. As Loki climbed onto him, and took Tony’s cock inside of him, he was surprised at the juxtaposition. His skin was cooler than Tony’s, and so he’d half expected him to be cooler inside as well, but the heat that enveloped him was maddening. For a moment he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and then that intolerably soft mouth was distracting him, coaxing him to kiss back, and he was kissing Loki again, and it reminded him how to breathe. 

How to breathe, and how to move. 

Tony slid his hands down Loki’s back, under that black storm hair, and held his hips as he began to move, all the time monopolizing Loki’s mouth. Loki shifted his legs slightly, to balance better against Tony’s moving hips, and they found a steady rhythm quickly. It was far more intimate than Tony had expected, with Loki’s face so close to his own, so that even when they weren’t kissing, Loki’s cheek was pressed against his own, and he could feel the changeling prince’s breath against his neck, his heart racing in his chest. 

It didn’t last long. It didn’t have to. Tony finished first, but didn’t abandon his efforts to bring Loki to orgasm, and soon enough he was rewarded with a fist full of Loki’s seed. 

Sometime after, Tony realized he was still lying on the bed with Loki, half-wrapped in that long black hair, and they had simply been lying there, quiet and tangled together, without repartee or conversation. It had been a long time since Tony had simply enjoyed the quiet company of someone else, and it seemed that Loki was quite comfortable like this. He drowsed, comfortably, wrapped in Loki’s body and hair, until Loki began to stir, and Tony stretched. 

The changeling prince sat up, and pulled his hair gently from Tony’s body. “I am going to draw a bath,” he said. “If you would like one, you may join me. But don’t get up yet, if you aren’t inclined. It will take a while to fill.”

“Mmmm, just let me know,” Tony said, and watched Loki as he drew up to his knees, stretched, and then folded over to press a gentle kiss on Tony’s mouth. Tony returned it, and smiled as Loki descended from the bed, and walked into another section of the oddly shaped attic room. He heard the bathwater filling, and closed his eyes for a moment, simply listening to Loki moving around the room. He was reminded of the still sticky fluid in his palm, and lifted his hand to examine it. It wasn’t any different from any other spunk he’d seen, and so, on a terrible impulse he knew instinctively would only cause trouble, he tasted it. It was a little different, perhaps, but he could simply be imagining that it tasted better, because he’d enjoyed this so much.

“I’ve a new contraption in the other case,” he announced, certain Loki could hear him. “If you’d like to try that, when we’re cleaned up. I tested it, of course, and I think you may enjoy it.”

Loki had stopped moving around. Or at least, Tony couldn’t hear him. He waited a moment, for a response, and then spoke again. “It’s a sort of... buzzing insertable. I was able to change the shape a little, so it’s well angled to hit that delightful gland...” Loki still wasn’t moving around or responding. He trailed off, and stood up from the bed. “Loki?” He moved towards the center of the room, and could see Loki’s silhouette against the screen. “Are you alright?”

He stepped to the side of the screen, and saw Loki leaning against the edge of the copper tub, frowning slightly. The changeling looked up at Tony when he appeared, and somehow those eyes were colder than they had been just a few moments ago. 

“Tell me you didn’t do what I just felt you do,” Loki said. 

“Offer to let you try my new invention?” Tony was confused for a moment, until he could taste the changeling’s seed in his mouth. “Oh.” He rolled his eyes, but only slightly. 

“Oh. Yes. _Oh_. You are a fool, Anthony Stark.”

“How was I to know? It isn’t going to _hurt_ me,” Tony protested. 

“No, but it will _spellbind you_ ,” Loki replied. “And since you were so concerned about it _the very first time we spoke_ , I presumed that was something you already knew about. And given the particular potence of what I am, in comparison to your average Hedge fey, there are no fruits, no potions, no rituals to undo it. There is only time. So you should get dressed.”

“Time?” echoed Tony. The thought of walking away from Loki, after having gotten what he wanted at last, was a terrible one. And even though he knew that was probably the magic as much as his actual feelings, it didn’t stop him from asking. “How much time?” 

“A year and a day,” Loki replied. “You cannot see me, not speak to me, not come close to me. I will ask Antoinette to recommend me another house so there is no risk of it; I will not keep you from your friends.” 

“They are your friends, too.” 

“They are not,” Loki replied. “And a year and a day to me is nothing like it is for you. Tony...” he took Tony’s hand, and with a cloth, wiped it clean, and held it in his own hands. “For how brilliant you are, you are a fool. Do not make this worse. Go home. Sleep. I will be gone in the morning.” 

“What is the worst that will happen?” Tony asked. He had to ask. He had to _know_. 

“You will be bound to me,” Loki replied. “That is the worst. You, a human, will be bound, inextricably, for as long as the sun burns, to one of the most terrible of fey. And you do not need Bramblewind to explain to you what an awful fate that is.” 

“It doesn’t sound so awful,” Tony muttered sullenly. 

“Don’t be a child. Keep your grace, and go.” He gave Tony a slight push, and looked away from him. That made it worse. Tony knew he had been rash, been cavalier; the faeries always were careful about bodily fluids, and perhaps Loki had been careless this night, but for Tony to be so foolhardy? Loki had assumed him smarter, and perhaps he was right. Tony was smart enough to understand the risk, but too much of a fool to not want to risk it anyway. 

Story of his life. He knew the risks, and he took them anyway. 

“I am not a man of feelings and intuition,” Tony said. “But I feel as though, if I walk away from you now, the next time I see you will be much farther away than a year and a day.” 

“Then you should leave sooner,” Loki said. “Or the things you have set in motion with this choice will only solidify with the binding you initiated.” 

“You are driving me away?” he demanded, and Loki refused to look at him, to answer. He stepped closer again, and reached for Loki’s face, to force him to look at him. “Tell me!” 

“I have told you all you need to know,” Loki snarled, and he shoved Tony back, green eyes blazing. “Do not make me force you out.” 

_Please don’t make me force you out_ , Tony felt, in his chest, like Loki had spoken the words aloud, and he understood. The binding would not be one way. Loki would be bound to Tony. He would obsess over, desire, and be tied to, a human. The conclusion, then, was natural. Loki refused to be beholden so to a simple human. It was clear. Loki could not so lower himself. 

Tony’s expression hardened, and Loki felt it in his own chest, and looked away again. He didn’t watch as Tony dressed hastily. He hoped Tony didn’t see him wince at the sound of Tony’s new case when he smashed it against the fireplace mantle hard enough the many gears and coils burst through the leather, and fell tinkling to the ground. He didn’t hide the wince of the door slamming shut. 

Loki sank into the hot water of the bath, and with a simple cantrip, turned it as cold as the Thames in winter. He held himself under the water for a long time, felt it begin to tremble and swirl around him of its own accord, responding to the deep, abiding wish that sat in him still, that the Maw of the Strid had simply swallowed him, and left his corpse on the shores of England. 


	5. This Dark Storm

It was more than a year and a day. 

It was much more. 

~

War swallowed Europe, and the fey did not escape it. Though the High Courts of the Seelie and Unseelie declared themselves neutral ground, many fey were recruited by the human nations, and the loss of life was unyielding, with Death marching across the earth. They called it the War To End All Wars. 

Tony didn’t escape the war, either. Though the intensity of his obsession with Loki did indeed wane over the course of a year, and had returned only to the same curiosity he’d had after a year and a day, he was swept up in the politics and the machines of warfare, and did not think of him often. He was too busy, building and improving suits to try to change the tides of warfare towards England’s victory-- and America’s-- to do more than think of him on the odd night. 

Three years passed, and Germany was at its bitter dregs, even for all the help it had conjured from rogue Unseelie and lowborn fey. Tony was flying reconnaissance when he spotted the telltale coil of seething dark that meant sluagh, and he descended, unafraid of them. After all, he was the Man of Iron, and since the beginning of the war, that had meant that parts of his armor were in fact cold iron, now.

But these sluagh did not disperse like others he had met. The curled tighter, snarling and whispering nightmares at him, and if not for the cold iron on his skin, he might have gone mad in that moment from the sheer intensity of their desperation. But cold iron could dispel almost any illusion, and these barely phased him, especially in comparison to the horrors he’d seen already. He walked up to them, and still they would not disperse, even as he was close enough to grab individuals from the swirling cloud, all wings and claws and dark bodies. 

“Get out of here,” he said, his voice through the speaker distorted, and he waved an arm into the mass, expecting the bars of cold iron in his armor to disperse them. But it didn’t; instead several of them seized on his arm, despite the iron burning them and killing one of them instantly, and tried to drive him away. 

Whatever they were protecting, they would die to do so. And suddenly, in the pit of his stomach, he knew what they were protecting. He forced his way into the hoard, and the scratched and pulled at him, trying to get him out, but the armor, with its iron, was far too heavy. He could see through the slits, the pallid face, so pale it was blue, and for a moment, he was certain Loki was dead. There was so much blood, and Tony could see pieces of bone, where his rib cage was visible. 

“Get me cloth,” he said to the hoard of sluagh. “Get me cloth and wrap him tight for me. I have to get him to medical care immediately.”

“You are who did this,” hissed one of the sluagh, which perched on the other side of Loki’s body. “Your weapons and your people, they did this. You cannot be trusted.”

Tony let the helmet open, and the gauntlet pull away from his hand, and he reached out, and grabbed the sluagh. It was too weak to pull away from him, but twisted anyway in his grip. 

“Look at me,” Tony growled at it. “I know you can smell it, no matter how old it is. I helped compile the dossiers on your hoards, sluagh, and I have them all memorized. Smell him in my skin and tell me I cannot be trusted.”

It twisted in his grip still, trying to escape, for a moment longer before it seemed to give up. 

“You speak truth,” it snarled, and Tony let go, and let the gauntlet and helmet snap back over him. “Cloth!” it cried, joining its fellows, and a portion of the hoard broke off, and dissipated into the night. Tony crouched over Loki, and waited. He had known that Loki had been swept up in the war. He’d seen him on battlefields, with great green shielding magics over medical tents and command posts. He’d read the reports that had said that the former High Prince had joined the Central powers, and the conflicting reports as to why. He’d read the reports that claimed that he’d taken out entire units alone, and the ones that said that those units had simply been swept aside, instead of annihilated, turning up later unharmed and disoriented, but safe. Those reports had largely been hidden under the other ones. The former High Prince was a very high profile target, and to have defeated him would be a great blow to the Central nations. 

Defeated. Tony would not let him die.

The sluagh returned, and wrapped their prince in a shroud of scraps. Tony picked him up, and with an escort of chittering sluagh, flew through the night back to England. 

Dr. Ashdown was unhappy to be woken, but when she saw it was Tony in her country parlor, far away from the high-risk London, she snapped to alertness. 

“What is it? Are you hurt?” she asked, and stepped fully into the parlor. She gasped, seeing the sluagh stacked against her windows, and her hand shot into her gown pocket, for the cold iron bracelet there. She put it on hurriedly. “What is going on?”

Tony drew back the blanket from Loki’s face, and she gasped. 

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“If he were dead, I wouldn’t have brought him here,” Tony said quietly. 

“It’s better if he’s dead, Tony, he’s a war criminal if he survives. The High Courts have said already they will not take him back.” But she was already pulling the blanket back more, and pulling the scraps loose to examine the wounds on his chest. 

“If he survives, he owes us both life debt,” Tony said, rubbing his eyes. He was exhausted. He’d been awake thirty hours when he’d found Loki; it was now almost two days. “The High Courts and the Government will keep him alive until he fulfills it.” He’d become an expert in the laws of fey. He’d had to. This had been a war of intelligence, and whoever understood the most, won. 

“Well, bring him to the lab,” she said. “He’s lucky your magnification works as well as it does.” 

“Let’s not call him lucky yet,” Tony said solemnly, and picked Loki up. 

The surgery took most of the day. The iron shrapnel had torn its way through most of Loki’s abdomen, and it wasn’t until they had removed the vast majority of the iron that his heart began to regain some amount of healthy color to it. But the work went on, and eventually, another pass of the magnetic imager he had developed for Dr. Ashdown showed Loki was clear of any metals. 

“Now we can only hope he recovers,” she said, and sat for the first time since the morning. Within minutes, she was asleep, exhausted from the effort. She had retired two years ago.

The hours dragged, and Tony passed in and out of drowsing. One of Dr. Ashdown’s daughters brought brandy, and food, and water, and asked Tony if he wanted her to try to give Loki water. But Tony declined, and took a cloth, dipping it in water and squeezing drops over Loki’s lips. If it helped, it was impossible to tell. 

Sometime later, he woke up in a guest room of Dr. Ashdown’s house, and was assured by an old servant that Loki was in the next room, and nothing had changed. But Tony had to see for himself before he took any food or drink, and sure enough, Loki was still very much unconscious. If he looked any better, Tony could not tell. His skin was still blue. 

Days passed. An official from the government arrived, and Tony had a spirited argument with him, and the official went; a police watch was put on the house, but Tony heard nothing else, until a letter that said he had to report with Loki to London, as soon as Loki woke and was able to travel. He ignored it. 

Loki woke briefly on the ninth day. His green and gold eyes were dull, and only barely seemed able to focus. He looked at Tony’s face, and could barely whisper, but Tony understood it as clearly as if Loki had shouted.

“We are cursed, you and I.”


	6. The River

Tony spent the entirety of Loki’s three month recovery at Dr. Ashdown’s country home, and Dr. Ashdown was quite insistent they not move, though arguably they could have moved Loki once he had woken that first time. When they could not postpone the return to London any more, Tony hired a car, so he could drive them the fifteen miles or so to Leeds, and catch the train. 

But a few miles into their drive, Loki looked more alert than he had in weeks. He was watching the countryside rolling by, and Tony could not temper his curiosity. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“Familiarity,” Loki replied. “Turn, here. Do you see the road?”

Tony turned, against his logical judgement, but not against his instinctual one. The road was barely big enough for a cart, and bumped mightily, but Loki looked unbothered. He instructed him to turn up another cart-track, and finally, the car couldn’t go any further, too mired in mud and hemmed in by stone walls. 

“Loki, where are we going?” Tony asked as he got out of the car, and followed Loki, who had climbed out and was walking barefoot away from the track, into a thick wood. 

Loki stopped, and looked at Tony. Tony could feel those green eyes turning over pieces of his soul, and he didn’t try to hide anything. He couldn’t hide from Loki, not really. He’d never been able to. 

“You have insisted on seeing me through my recovery this far,” Loki replied. “If you wish to see me the rest of the way through, you will have to come with me.”

Tony didn’t like that answer, because it wasn’t an answer, and it annoyed him. He wanted to _know_. So he followed Loki, in his white dressing-gown and green robe, into the forest. And though it was thick with bramble and brush, Loki’s path was an easy one, as if the wood was unfolding an easy course through its depths, and though it was barely noon, and bright and clear, there was a sort of late afternoon under the thick green leaves. Somewhere along the path, Tony realized that tomorrow would be the summer solstice, and the feeling in his stomach only grew heavier when he heard the sound of water through the trees.

It was beautiful, the little stream, when the woods opened up to the clearing around it. If Tony had a camera, he would have staged Loki at the edge of it, and taken photos. It looked no wider than a meter in places, and burbled merrily. But Tony didn’t need to ask Loki where they were to know the deception of that stream. 

_The Strid is where the River Wharfe narrows and the turbulence can catch people and drown them easily._

“Loki,” Tony whispered. The changeling prince was standing on one of the rocks, and looking into the waters. “Loki, come here. Get away from there.” 

Loki didn’t move. He turned, slightly, and let his green robe fall onto the rock. 

“Please,” Tony whispered, and took a few steps towards him, to catch his hand. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“All of this time, and I was the fool,” Loki said, his fingers curling around Tony’s hand lightly. “Thinking I could escape the Strid, could escape the sluagh in my blood, that I could escape you.” He looked at Tony, his fingers curling in Tony’s, and there was a sad smile on his face. 

“Please,” Tony whispered again, and he tried to tug Loki away, but the changeling with all his strength was unmoved. He heard his own voice break slightly, and could feel the wetness on his face. He was weeping. “Loki, I am begging you.”

“I know,” Loki said. “I know, and I wish I could have mercy on us both.”

“I don’t understand. Loki, _please_. You’re too close to the edge and I don’t _understand_.”

“My Tony,” Loki said, and he brought his hand up, and stroked at Tony’s face with his fingertips, and his thumb over Tony’s lower lip. “You will never forgive me for this.” 

“No, I won’t,” Tony said. “Never. Even if you survive again, and pop up in the Thames again, I will never forgive you. You don’t have to do this.”

“But I do,” Loki said. “It has been chasing me all this time, trying to swallow me back up, and I have fought it the whole way.”

“Don’t be stupid. That’s your melancholy. You don’t have to give in to it. You have to fight it, because it won’t be here forever. It will go away, eventually, but you have to fight it, or it wins.”

“My champion,” Loki smiled. “Has yours?”

Such a simple question, and Tony could not respond but with a sob. Of course it hadn’t. He’d been fighting his whole life and it had never gone away. 

“That doesn’t mean I can stop fighting,” Tony said. “And it doesn’t mean you can, either.”

“It’s too late for that,” Loki said. 

“It is _never_ too late. As long as you’re alive it isn’t too late.” 

“My champion,” Loki said again, and he leaned in, to kiss Tony. It was tender, so much more gentle than any of the few kisses they had shared, and now more than ever he could taste the ocean’s winter winds in Loki, and he couldn’t let them go. He held tightly to Loki’s hand, and kissed him back, pouring every ounce of himself into it, so that Loki would understand, so he could read him clearly, and understand the shape of him laid bare. 

And then he wasn’t holding on to anything, and Loki was just a few steps too far away, and the black coil of his hair was disappearing under the water. 

Tony didn’t hesitate. Tony was a man who knew the risks, and he took them anyway.  
~

 

 

~

It was a year and a day later, and there were men climbing out of the Thames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to see more than one fic a year from me? Check out my Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/saintduma


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